


A Lesson Worth Remembering

by BlueButterflyDreamer



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Fear, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueButterflyDreamer/pseuds/BlueButterflyDreamer
Summary: He shoved his shoulder into the man and sent him reeling back against John who had managed to stand, albeit on unsteady feet.The woman’s scream pierced the interior of the cabin and the boy wailed loudly for his daddy.Losing his balance, the man swayed dangerously, then John grabbed him, throwing him down onto his back.Arthur and John find themselves in a predicament that they should have known better than to have found themselves in.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Kudos: 14





	A Lesson Worth Remembering

**Author's Note:**

> Feeling that Morston pairing is deserved of some more attention.

Arthur felt the cold steel of the barrel of the shotgun leveled against his temple.

He could smell the gun oil, rich and cloying almost choking him.

He tried not to move, not to breathe, not to even swallow.

His heart pounded in his ears; a loud booming that reminded him of thunder during an intense storm which made him want to run.

Which he dared not to do considering the predicament he’d found himself in, he _and_ John.

It had been a stupid choice, checking out the cabin they had come across. Hoping to find some shelter from the impending storm and maybe some supplies and maybe some time spent with each other and away from the eyes at camp.

They had walked in, blind to the signs that the cabin was _not_ empty at the moment.

His eyes shifted down to where John lay on the hard dirt-packed floor; his face to the side, a nasty wound, bleeding profusely from above his eye.

He had been first in the door, it swinging closed behind him.

Arthur had paused to grab a canteen of water, his thirst dissipating when he heard the thump from inside the cabin.

Nerves afire jangled like his spurs under Arthur’s skin.

He had pulled his revolver and strode to the door.

“John, ya alright?” he uttered softly.

Arthur had shoved the door open partially, the dimly lit interior of the cabin greeting him.

He had stepped in, knowing full well it might have been a trap, but he could see John, laying on the floor.

Arthur’s heart had leapt into his mouth.

It had been his mistake.

He knew it when he had heard the distinct CH CHUNK sound of the shell being chambered. Then felt the cold steel barrel touch his temple.

Arthur’s eyes darted back to the man who was holding the shotgun.

Would he shoot?

The look upon the man’s face told him all he needed to know.

A woman sobbed uncontrollably in a darkened corner of the cabin; a small child, a boy, clinging to his mother, asking why the men wanted to hurt his daddy.

Arthur did swallow and drew in a short light breath.

“M, Mister?”

The end of the barrel bobbed slightly against his temple; the pressure increased.

Arthur could see his Adam’s apple moving up and down, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He could smell his sweat, putrid and offensive.

“Mister, I have to say I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think anyone was living in here. I mean, look at the place, it really ain’t fit for anyone.”

_Way to go, Morgan, insult the man’s home. Where do you live in a fancy mansion?_ He could hear John saying to him in his mind.

Silence greeted his apology.

“I ain’t one to apologize, Mister, but I knows when I ought to. We was always told not to be taking from the poor, and Mister, that’s ya.”

The barrel bobbed again, shoving against his head.

“Look, Mister, I got forty dollars in my satchel. Take it. It’s yours, just let us go.”

_‘Let us go,’_ sounded an awful like whining, Arthur thought to himself, but at this point, Arthur didn’t give a damn one way or the other.

His eyes darted over to John who moaned softly.

Arthur’s stomach lurched. If the man heard him too, he might turn and shoot John.

“Look, Mister, we got off on the wrong foot. How about ya put that there shotgun down, and we have a drink? There’s a bottle of whiskey in my saddlebag.”

“I dunna wan yer damn whiskey, lad. I wanna kill yer fer trespassing in me hame, tryin to rob me and my family, scaring my wife and the wee bairn. Can ye understand that?”

Arthur blinked and nodded.

“Mister, I understand and we’re sorry. It won’t happening again.”

“Aye, ye can say that again, lad, yu’ll nae break into another man’s wee house when I’m done wi ya, will ya noo?”

John opened his eyes slowly. The throbbing pain in his head loud. He slowly raised on hand to the side of his head, as he struggled to sit upright, his hand coming away bloody.

“Jesus Christ, Morgan, what the hell hit me?”

It happened all in one fluid moment.

Arthur’s arm travelled up to bash the end of the barrel away from his head, the deafening noise of the shot ringing in his ears, nearly knocking him back, but he fought against it.

He shoved his shoulder into the man and sent him reeling back against John who had managed to stand, albeit on unsteady feet.

The woman’s scream pierced the interior of the cabin and the boy wailed loudly for his daddy.

Losing his balance, the man swayed dangerously, then John grabbed him, throwing him down onto his back.

Arthur was on top of him, his own revolver held under the man’s chin.

He glanced at John, ensuring his lover was alright.

John nodded that he was fine, a little bloody, and with the makings of one helluva headache.

“Dinnae hurt me.” The man cried softly.

Arthur glanced over at the woman and the boy and grimaced, then focused on the man.

He rolled his eyes, and his lips thinned.

“Now, ya just stay there, Mister and ya’ll listen to me. I’m not gonna kill ya. We’ll be leaving, and that’ll be the end of it. I offered ya some money and ya’ll damn well take it. No one, I repeat no one is going to kill anyone. Now, do I have ya word, no killing?”

The man’s face was red, his pride obviously injured.

He had tried to defend his wife and child from these men and had ended up being humiliated by them, but he should be thankful that he _was_ alive.

He sighed a heavy sigh and nodded.

“Alright, alright, I ken when I’m a defeated man. Ye can let me up, I’ll no kill ye.”

Arthur stood, not holstering his revolver at first.

John stepped to stand beside Arthur, his steady breathing calming Arthur.

The man scrambled to his feet, his son rushing over to him, clawing at his legs until he lifted him up in his arms.

“Mister, I apologize again, and to ya Mam,” Arthur tipped his hat in her direction, “there’s forty dollars in my satchel and we have two perfect deer pelts on the back of the horses, those are yours.”

The woman came to stand hesitantly beside her husband, her eyes swollen and red from crying.

“We nae take ‘em. Just leave us be.”

Her husband shushed her, sliding an arm around her waist.

“Mary, we’ll listen te the man. Now go, go git the pelts a fore he changes his mind.”

Arthur nodded.

“And take the bottle of whiskey, it’s yours too.”

John handed over the forty dollars from Arthur’s satchel and half smiled at the man and his son.

“Sorry, Mister.”

The man nodded back and clung to his son.

Arthur and John walked out of the cabin; the woman met them at the path where their horses were tied, the bottle of whiskey in her hands, the pelts laying on the ground by the path.

“Yu’ll no come later and take it back, will ya?”

Both John and Arthur shook their heads at her and moved towards their horses.

Old Boy whinnied at John, prancing sideways as he mounted up.

Arthur walked towards him and patted his thigh.

“Thought I’d lost ya there for a sec.”

“I’m alright, Morgan.”

Angharad huffed at Arthur as he swung up onto her back. He laid a calming hand on her neck.

“You sure, Arthur?” John inquired from beside him, leaning over close and touching Arthur’s cheek lovingly.

“Course I’m sure, John. Let’s get."

As they rode away, in the opposite direction they had come, Arthur shuddered.

Here they had been going to rob that family, and they had nothing.

For some reason it hit him hard then, it called him back to another family that had been robbed.

Robbed for only ten dollars.

Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat at the memory, once buried, that had now surfaced.

Arthur swore he would hold to that feeling, and that he and John would never steal from those that had naught.

It was perhaps only one of the values that Dutch had instilled into them that had been right and proper.

Values that had fallen to the wayside that needed to be raised again; a lesson worth remembering.

“Better get back to camp before they send out a search party for us.” John muttered from behind Arthur.

“Yep, but first we find us some shelter somewhere out of this storm, and maybe, just maybe no trouble this time.”

A fork of lightning sizzled overhead as the rain began to pelt down harder.

“What cha really got in mind, Morgan?”

Arthur turned in his saddle and grinned at John.

“Maybe show ya just how grateful I am for ya being alright.”

John laughed heartily from his place astride Old Boy.

“Arthur Morgan, that I think is the best thing I've heard all day.”


End file.
